You're Not In This Alone
by Wayoming
Summary: The violent death of young woman see Sherlock and John delving into a side of London that seems more fantasy than reality, and both must learn to play their parts if they are to survive. Rated T for initial violence/possible slash if that's what's wanted
1. Chapter 1

**This started **_**years **_**ago as a different story, as a different fandom! This was written before I even knew what was… But now it's been adapted, updated, made relative to the **_**Sherlock **_**fandom. **

**Not sure what's going to happen yet, suggestions always welcome **

**Um. This is going to be my first attempt at a non-one-shot **_**Sherlock **_**story soooo. Yeah, hope you all like it!**

**R&R appreciated :D**

**Wayoming**

**x**

_He could see his victim from where he stood. Could almost taste how close she was, how easy it was going to be. She was dressed to the nines, sparkling heels making her stumble every few steps, almost breaking her neck. _Almost doing his job for him.

_He came out from the alley he had been lurking in slowly, quietly so as not to alert her to his presence, and began walking behind her, mirroring her steps. He could smell her perfume floating back to him on the warm evening breeze, and breathed in deeply. _

_She was speaking on her mobile, his concentration too focused on the task in hand to hear what she was saying, or who to._

"_I'm on my way now…Yes I'm safe…I'm at the station…waiting for the night bus, the tube stops after 2…no I haven't! I said I wouldn't and I haven't! You never trust me!...You know what, I'll see you when I get home…Whenever." She hung up, her inebriated state causing her to drop her phone in the process. He swept forward and helped her up, the slimy grin on his faced missed by the woman before him. He looked into her eyes. She smiled and thanked him, attempting to remove her arms from his grasp. He merely tighten his grip, squeezing until she squealed in pain, tears coming from her eyes as she begged him to let her go. _

_ He smiled broader than before as he transferred both her slim wrists into one of his hands, and pulled her close to him, brushing his lips against her ear._

"_Scream," he rasped "and this will hurt more." He was lying of course, but her fear shut her up, her tears now flowing down her face ruining the make up she had painstakingly applied mere hours ago. _

_ His knife flashed under the streetlight, and her eyes widened, and remained frozen with shock as he plunged the knife into her stomach. He watched as the stark relvelation that she was going to die filled her eyes. He let her drop to the ground, and she clutched herself, no noise escaping her as she sank. He avoided the blood she was coughing and spluttering as she gazed up at him, silently begging for mercy. He moved behind her, pulled her by her hair, and drew the knife across her throat, before releasing her hair once more._

_ He replaced the knife in his pocket, and turned swiftly on his heel, turning a few corners to rejoin the bustling night life of London. The street empty once more, the sound of clubs and police cars whining in the distance, finally becoming silence as the girl faded into the darkness._

-x-O-x-

John Watson's eyes snapped open. A cold film of sweat covered his exposed body. He squinted as the gloom cleared. He sat up gingerly and glanced at the mess he had made his bed. His coverlet was kicked almost completely off the bed itself, and the sheet below was wrinkled and twisted- a testament to his uneasy night.

He felt the emptiness creeping up on him again. The feeling that he wouldn't achieve anything of note, that he would waste years of his life, and no one would remember him. That he would be forgotten like so many before him.

He bolstered himself. _No, it's not like that anymore. _He thought about all the good he had done in the last few months, before the turn of the new year. He thought about what had happened in the pool, unresolved, unforgotten. How he had helped, in his own small way, to save lives. His life had become meaningful and useful.

There weren't many reminders of his life before Baker Street. He didn't need them, his memories were more than vivid enough to keep waking him night after night. Dawn was barely breaking through the crack in his curtains, his alarm clock read 05:37. Well, he might as well get up, he wasn't going to get back to sleep any time soon.

He trudged sleepily down the stairs to the kitchen he shared with his flat mate Sherlock Holmes, whose absence from the front room was noticeable. Apparently Sherlock had decided to sleep for once, or had at least confined whatever experiment or paperwork pertaining to their latest case to his room.

But that was the thing that niggled at him, there hadn't been a case for a while. Only a week, but a week was enough for someone as easily bored as Sherlock. John remembered the infamous bullet-created-face in the wall, and sighed. They were never getting their damage deposit back from Mrs. Hudson.

Upstairs, holed up in his room, Sherlock was pondering. Still dressed, lying atop his bed, eyes closed, thoughts running through his head faster than a freight train. Images of things that constantly occupied his mind revolved and whirled in a heady dance, analysis quick and sound in each circumstance. _Moriarty. The bombs. The choices made. The lives lost. _Sherlock allowed himself a small admission, that _that_ case had proved that his inductions were perhaps not as spot on as he'd like to pretend. It was the only one of his, their, unsolved cases. And it bothered Sherlock _endlessly._

A soft sound blurred the edge of his concentration, a repetitive noise. Three times, in quick succession, obtrusive, obnoxious noise. The noise became sharper in his mind, became more insistent. The door. Someone was knocking. _John._

Sherlock opened the door of his room and was greeted by a sleepy faced John holding a cup of tea in one hand, and pulling Sherlock's mobile out of his pocket with the other.

"Lestrade called. Thought you might like to ring him back." He said handing Sherlock the tea and mobile. Sherlock grinned, and shut the door in John's face.

"_You're welcome." _John said to himself as he returned to the sitting room to retrieve him own tea. Though he didn't let himself get too comfortable. If Lestrade was called, something was up, and Sherlock and he were probably going to be summoned any moment.

_Well, _thought John to himself, _I better enjoy this tea while I can._

-o-X-o-

**So ah, yeah. Let me know what you think. Whether I should carry on or not, thoughts about whether this story should include slash or just cannonesque plot.**

**ANYTHING :D**

**Much love!**

**Wayoming**

**x**


	2. Authors Note

Hello ALL!

I know that I haven't updated in a REALLY long time, but to be honest i've really not known how to carry on with this fic. I had the idea, but not the how to write it. However I have recently obtained a beta reader and she's going to help me carry on with this story because if nothing else I'd like to finish it for myself!

Review with any ideas/what you want to see in this fic.

I hope to update with chapter two in the next couple of days...

See you all soon!

Naomi

x


	3. Chapter 2

**Soooo. Typical **_**Sherlock **_**"deduction"y scene alert… Just in case you ever get bored of them! Not that it's particularly well written, but I try my best **** Enjoy!**

**Thanks to my friend and beta Helen! Without whom I wouldn't have the impetus to continue the story! **

"Claire Warden, 24. Found about forty minutes ago by a cabbie passing." Said D.I. Lestrade as Sherlock and John arrived.

Sherlock glanced at the scene before him. Lestrade had made sure no one had touched the body or the scene. His eyes flashed as he took in the faded colour of the blood surrounding the woman. He took the proffered gloves from Lestrade and began a thorough inspection of whatever information she could give him.

_Eyes wide and glassy- she saw her killer face to face. Clothes, night out, separated, prefers to be alone. _He glanced across to John, and nodded. Letting him know that he had all he needed.

John, who had already donned rubber gloves, joined Sherlock on the floor and conducted his own medical analysis.

"Died about 7 hours ago," John confirmed, "stab wound to the stomach. She would have bled out but the killer cut her throat. Bruises on her arms and wrists, she was restrained, but no sign of attack of a sexual nature." He stopped and turned to Sherlock, a small part of him expecting either praise, however unlikely, or to be shot down. However confident John felt in his medical expertise he always felt a sense of inferiority whenever Sherlock began reeling off the reasons why everyone around him was wrong.

Sherlock merely nodded, and stood up, turning to face Lestrade.

"She was at one of the London clubs with friends last night between the hours of 10pm and 2am, four of them; you should call them for information about who they'd been dancing with that night. She received several calls from her partner, who she is having trouble with recently because of his tendency to flirt with his co-workers. She left early but walked around the back streets alone in order to talk to this partner, he should be the last number that called her phone." He paused and looked down at the body of the woman behind him, glancing at John still crouched by her still form. "She dropped her phone; the killer helped her up when she fell. The bruises on her arms and wrist where he held her show that she saw him face to face when he stabbed her in the stomach." He paused again. "But why cut her throat? Some sort of _mercy_? From someone who just stabbed an innocent girl?" He mused, more to himself at this point.

"Could she have known the killer already?" John questioned, standing up and checking his jeans for blood. Sherlock shot him a piercing stare, arching one eyebrow.

"Maybe."

Before sweeping from the crime scene, leaving a confused Lestrade and John in his wake. John nodded a quick apologetic farewell to Lestrade before hurrying after Sherlock.

_Maybe I should remind Sherlock about the proper way to say goodbye…_

-o-X-o-

"So where are we going?" John finally deigned to ask a consumed Sherlock, whose focus was narrowed entirely on the screen of the mobile he was tapping away on.

_Address, Brixton, station,__ organised__ crime –_

"Sherlock! Hello!" Sherlock roused himself and looked into John's eyes,

"Sorry, were you saying something?"

John never seemed to understand how quickly Sherlock's mind worked, and Sherlock decided not to enlighten him for the time being. John would be surprised to know that Sherlock already had an idea of not only a motive, but a few suspects too.

"Yes, actually," John replied testily looking out the window, "you never tell me where we're going, or why, or…Well, anything!"

John was beginning to feel irritated; the self justification of that morning had become a quiet resentment. He felt almost as if he didn't contribute anything to his and Sherlock's partnership, nothing but puppy dog demeanor and a replacement for a skull. Just expected to sit there and listen to Sherlock's theories, his contribution obviously too juvenile to be considered useful.

"Brixton."

"What?"

"We're going to Brixton. To talk to the boyfriend." Sherlock looked up at John once more, with a tight smile. "That enough information for you?" and returned his eyes to the precious phone. John mouthed wordlessly, determined not to bring up his issues while they were on a case. John refused to call what he ended up doing sulking but he took the decision to not speak and he and Sherlock lapsed into an uneasy silence as the cab pushed through the busy weekend traffic.

-x-O-x-

The flat they found themselves in less than fifteen minutes later was small, unkempt and, for want of a better word, squalid. The furniture was littered with discarded packaging and screwed up scraps of paper. The pallid youth before them clearly resented the presence of the consulting detective and his colleague, and sat looking grudgingly at John while Sherlock silently took in the surroundings, and made his judgments.

"So who exactly _are _you guys anyway," the petulant youth "you with the police?"

"Sort of," John attempted to answer, wishing that Sherlock would say something to justify their presence there "we work with the police, yes. Umm," John floundered again "Can you tell us what it was you were discussing with Claire last night around 2am?"

Sherlock's eyes flashed in John's direction, but he didn't notice, or at least he pretended not to. His concentration was on the man in front of him, a man hiding something.

"Yeah, yeah, 'course I can." the youth started shifting having been asked a direct question, "We haven't been, talking properly exactly lately," Sherlock winced at the poor sentence structure but said nothing "she's got this thing where she thinks I'm cheating on her. I'm not – "

Sherlock coughed suddenly, causing both the youth and John to turn to look at him, John frustrated that Sherlock has yet again undermined him trying his best to help. Sherlock offered a wry smile and merely said:

"I have a cold coming on."

-o-X-o-

John sat yet again in silence. He couldn't pin point exactly when or what had begun his mood but Sherlock had infuriated him and he wasn't exactly sure why.

"John?"

Just the constant bossiness and the condescending manner and the childish sulking and the-

"_John?" _

John snapped out of his reverie and looked at his companion in the back of yet another London cab. It wasn't exactly concern he could see in Sherlock's eyes, but he knew better than to think that the consulting detective hadn't picked up on his odd mood.

"You're quiet." Sherlock stated. John was surprised. It wasn't that Sherlock was blunt, he was always blunt. It wasn't like Sherlock to waste time with pleasantries. John glanced off, trying to think of something to say.

Sherlock furrowed his brow, and pushed no further. He knew now was not the time to pry.

"I need you to go home. And take these with you."

John looked at Sherlock incredulously, eyes flicking from him to the bag of disks he had obviously obtained from _somewhere_. He thought that Sherlock trusted him more than this.

"Go home?" John gaped, meeting Sherlock's level gaze.

"Yes John," he said, "must I repeat myself? I need you to take these," he brandished a bag of compact disks, "and search for our suspect."

"And where are you going?" John repeated, knowing that Sherlock's answer would frustrate him.

"I can't tell you that John."

John fixed Sherlock with a resolute stare. _Insufferable man, _John thought as he took the proffered bag of CCTV recordings, before getting out of the cab at Baker Street without a word of farewell to Sherlock.

John slammed the door behind him. Sherlock had become ever increasingly distant in recent weeks. Leaving John behind, leaving him in the dark more often than usual. You would think living with him for this long would have broken down a portion of that icy veneer. John really thought it had. He had thought Christmas had been a turning point. They had laughed, had fun. Even Mycroft's presence hadn't done anything to damped Sherlock's spirits. John had thought he had made friends with the man behind the work.

But as cases were often few and far between Sherlock had retreated back into himself, a harder nut to crack than anything John had faced before. Something had changed. Whatever it was Sherlock was changed because of it, and John was damned if he was going to let him continue the way he was.


End file.
